Renaissance
by Wofl
Summary: It is always to be expected, the gasp of surprise from her victims when they see it. DanteLyra. AU, Noncon, not brainsafe.


This was written originally for the Iron Yuri ( http/community. ) competition. Meaning it was written in 90 minutes, with posts at 10 minute intervals. Basically, it was frantic and spazzy and this was the result. o.O

Hi. This is a lemon. Read at your own risk. You have been warned.

* * *

She takes her time this morning, drinking her tea. She considers bringing it out to the patio, but the sun has already grown too hot for such things. It's the middle of July and she knows she's not as young as she used to be. Her body has begun, yet again, to rot; the patches more frequent, skin crumbling beneath her clothes. Soon, it will be time to change again, detach her soul and force it into another being; breath and body stolen for her own ruse of immortality.

The maid enters before she's finished her tea, and Dante sighs. It's hard to find good help these days, and it'll be a pity to see the girl go, but living as she is in a remote location, her options are limited, and the girl is I young /I , a luxury Dante had not had in years.

Her old bones creak and complain all the time now. Yes, it would be good to be young again.

"Lyra, was it?" she beckons, draining the last of her tea from the china cup and setting it on the table.

"Yes Ma'am," the girl confirms with a curtsey. "Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Dante?"

"Come girl, I have something to show you." Dante pulls herself to her feet, feels the ache in her decrepit limbs, and knows that soon they will be inconsequential. Slowly, she leads the girl through the maze of hallways, across the spacious foyer and up the stairs. When she reaches the top, stairs spewing them onto the second floor and pauses at the first door on the left. She draws a key from her pocket and opens it.

It is the one room Lyra has not been allowed in, since she began working here. She asked once, for the key so that she might clean it, and Dante remembers threatening to fire her, should she bring it up again.

To her credit, the girl never had.

Now, she lets the hinges creak open, smells the must that has gathered and steps into the dimly lit room. There isn't much; a trunk at the end of a large bed, books line the shelves. They are old useless things, out of date compared to her own knowledge. She never looks at them, hasn't since her last pupil left her. But it is the trunk in which she is interested.

"Come child. Sit there, on the bed." She points an arthritic finger to the dust-covered comforter and Lyra bows and obeys, sitting daintily on the bed. Dante can see the way she eyes the books. There is a familiar look in her eyes; thirsty for knowledge, ideas and dreams bubbling in her head, no doubt. She is young and innocent, still probably believes in equivalent exchange. Dante chuckles to herself at that thought as she unlocks the trunk.

It is always to be expected, the gasp of surprise from her victims when they see it. There's not much left now, just a few fragments of bright red light, hardly any substance remains at all. But it glows bright as it ever has, years and years locked away in a decaying chest, waiting for her to pull it out, call upon it's power and strength to keep her in the realm of the living. As long as she possesses even a sliver of the stone, she can go on living.

She holds it up, glances briefly at eyes both frightened and fascinated by such a myth. Most alchemists went through their lives believing such a thing was only a fable. Most alchemists are fools; idealists. Dante knows better.

Her knees pop as she stands, but she ignores the pain, knows it will be gone soon, and makes her way over to the bed.

"Here girl, do you know what this is?" she demands, holding it out in front of her like the precious thing it is. She gazes at it, never ceases to be amazed that this power is hers, that she helped make this thing; the closest to magic the world would ever see.

"I—I thought it was just a fairy tale." Trembling fingers lift, reach out to touch the stone - I her /I stone. "But it's so tiny!"

"Take it," Dante demands, pressing it into the girl's fingers and stepping closer to the bed. "Do you know what I can do with just this tiny shard? I could bring a city to ruins, breathe life back into a corpse…or…"

She leans forward; face bare inches from Lyra's.

"I could live forever."

Her palm feels cold, as she brushes it over the girl's cheek, curls her fingers around the back of her neck, and doesn't let Lyra pull away when she leans ever closer. She doesn't care that it's probably disgusting; Dante is in her mid-eighties (physically, at least), and this girl is probably barely in her twenties. And it won't matter in a half an hour I what /I the girl thinks.

She presses her lips against Lyra's, sees the flash of ruby light from the corner of her eye. Good.

The stone is a complex entity. It is not living, nor is it an inanimate object. It possesses a force all its own, and it is one that Dante has needed to learn to control and manipulate to do as she wishes. The best method she has found for swapping bodies is carnal.

She presses the girl down onto the bed, ignores the whimpers, the feeble attempts to push her away. Despite her appearance, Dante is strong. She grabs the girl's wrists, pins them up above Lyra's head and kisses her again.

The girl screams, muffled against her mouth, and Dante takes the opportunity to take it a step further, drives her tongue far inside Lyra's mouth. It's a deep kiss, Dante has had over four hundred years of practice, knows exactly the right way to move her tongue so that the screams soon turn to whimpers, makes her victim, if not consenting, at least pliant.

"But you see, Girl, I can't do it alone," she murmurs, pulling her lips away, fingers fumbling at the buttons of her blouse. "A body is mortal no matter what. The stone cannot provide immortality in that sense. But as long as there is another body for my soul to inhabit, I can use the stone, even just that little bit in your hand, to extend my life."

"And you would do that? You would be so immoral, so evil as to take someone's body, even at the cost of their life?" Lyra pants beneath her, sends a look of pure disdain that Dante counters with a laugh. Underneath, there is fear. This girl knows she is doomed.

"My dear," she says, hands now at Lyra's blouse, not bothering with buttons, just tearing the material away from pale, pale skin, "I already have."

Evil, immoral – they are just words, she knows. Silly words for those that believe there is a fate beyond death. They fear God, fear hell, fear the wrath and consequences that await them courtesy of their own deeds. They do not realize that is what awaits them no matter what. Why dedicate lives to being "good" or "moral" when it returns I nothing /I in the end?

Dante has never been one to understand that aspect of normal people. But it I is /I amusing to see such innocence still exists.

She casts the last of the tattered material aside, looks down at the body stretched out beneath her. Yes. This is good. This is wonderful. This will be hers soon, smooth pale skin, dainty features. She will be beautiful again; can find another husband to support her, for a time.

She smiles, lips pulling back in an unsettling grin and leans forward, tongue darting out to lap across the shell of Lyra's ear.

"Do you know how old I am, Girl?"

She bites, hard, on the delicate flesh, hard enough to leave marks, and relishes the cry of pain and the jerk of limbs the action rewards.

She keeps her grip on Lyra's wrists firm, doesn't allow the girl to pull free, though she tries desperately, and uses her other hand to explore the girl's body – her body, soon enough.

She runs a hand across the girl's throat, fingers straying down to the collarbone, the ridges of bone hard beneath supple flesh. Humans are a marvel, she thinks, hand dipping down over Lyra's breast, pinching at the nipple. Their bodies are fascinating objects. It is no wonder it is considered the ideal art form.

Lyra whimpers again, stutters another protest, and Dante lets her. There is no one to hear, no knight or prince to sweep her away, no mother to shield her eyes and tell her that it's not real, that the hurt will go away. This is the stuff of nightmares. This is sin, as those who did not know better called it.

Dante simply calls it knowledge.

Her hand dips again, as does her mouth, tongue working its way down Lyra's neck, fingers brushing against, but not pausing at the girl's navel, she doesn't bother with foreplay, nor does she worry about consent. There isn't much time left. The stone glows brighter than ever, the girl clasping it between white-knuckled fingers, and Dante knows it has to be now.

Her fingers find their way between the girl's legs, exploring anatomy that she is not unfamiliar with. It is, perhaps, a bit inconvenient, without the proper body parts of her own to do the job faster, but it makes no matter in the end, as long as the result is the same, and her many years have taught her exactly the right way to touch to get what she wants.

She lays contact on all the erogenous areas, tongue curling around a nipple, teeth employed, on occasion, fingers moving quickly, pressing against the clitoris or dipping inside of Lyra, and the girl beneath her is squirming for different reasons now.

She gasps, whimpers, and Dante studies her, watches the reactions to see which actions are most effective; repeats them until Lyra is arching beneath her, bed creaking beneath the strain (it is old, after all) and her cries are shrill and breathless.

The stone glows brighter than ever, light extending to every corner of the room. There is no way to see beyond it, but Dante is not worried. It is familiar, routine, by now. She smiles, and it's all she has time to do before she feels the world jerk, a terrible pain shooting out across her entire body.

She would double over, if she could, but she is suspended, caught in some infinite realm that even she has yet to decipher, but the sensation does not last long. Another pulling sensation, mind cascading in a million different directions and there is a great black looming presence behind her. And yet, that is familiar too. The gate; not a friend, nor is it an enemy, for it has yet to interfere with Dante's ambitions. It is only a thing to be respected and held at an arm's length.

It is there for what seems like forever, or perhaps it is only a second, she never could tell at times like these, but then, she is breathing again, muscles trembling. She sits up, looks down at herself and smiles. It worked. Not that she expected it wouldn't, but it is always a nice feeling to know that what she had planned has been successful.

She looks at her hands, notes that they are empty. The stone is gone, completely, no shred of evidence left to prove its existence, and that sends a cold chill down her (new!) spine, but for the moment, she focuses on flesh and blood and bone; hers.

She runs her fingers over her flesh, stretches, and hops off the bed, just to see if she can. This body is lithe, strong, really a wonder.

She is naked and dirty and the husk of her old self will have to be discarded, but it all seems so inconsequential. She is young. She is alive and free of pestilence, rot, and old sins. She feels, for the first time, in many years, that she has regained her innocence, four hundred years lost.


End file.
